She Is No Queen of Peace
by Ely Georgieva
Summary: "When the epiphany struck her, it did so like a slap. It shook her out from this self-inflicted daze that she was clinging onto. She was in love with him."
1. Chapter 1

"Oh, the queen of peace

Always does her best to please

Is it any use

Somebody's gotta lose"

\- Queen of Peace, Florence + the Machine

I.

When she realized that she loved him, she hid from him and cried. She did it often – escaping moments of beauty and true joy in order to tend to her internal turmoil. It was difficult to be present.

When the epiphany struck her, it did so like a slap. It shook her out from this self-inflicted daze that she was clinging onto. She might be in love with him but she didn't know, did she? _It was comforting to not be sure._ It had worked for her. It was nothing more than a delay of the inevitable but it gave her time. She had a funeral to prepare for after all.

II.

She was the queen of peace that never existed; she wanted a balance that brought no harmony – it was a catastrophe. She wanted to have him in every way and wished she could be the happy recipient of every type of love he could give her. Only, she could choose just one. He could be her lover or her faithful, fatherly guardian, never both. She was certain of it. Somehow, she didn't believe the universe could be so generous as to grant her such an excess of devotion. That was, if her suspicions were correct and she wasn't alone in her wildness for him. She wasn't sure. His somewhat fatherly ways were confusing her, warming her; such frustration! She wasn't sure. It was comforting to not be sure. Otherwise she was going to have to bury one love and let the other live; a funeral.

III.

He'd give her the address to his safe house and she'd go there for dinner. Maybe a movie. They'd read in silence sometimes, often times. He'd insist on Dembe escorting her home and she'd convince him she was a very capable driver. And she'd call him the second she'd get home and his voice would lull her to sleep after hours of conversation. It was their thing. She tried not to think of it as a newly established tradition but it was exactly what it was – a routine. An exciting one. Exciting and breathable. She felt light after indulgent dinners and desserts and wine. She enjoyed the illusionary balance between breathing in his cologne and having him kiss her temple before she left. She enjoyed toying with herself that way. She relished in not being sure. It was their thing.

IV.

Tragically, she was no queen of peace and balance had started to escape her; her attraction to him was growing. Her uncertainty in the essence of his love was her only comfort, the only thread she was currently holding onto. It was comforting to not be sure. But he caught her staring at him once, twice; many times. He was catching up with her turmoil. It was then that his kisses on her temples started to linger. And she was stripped of all her comforts. She didn't have a single excuse to keep postponing, to keep not knowing.

Truly, it had to end or else she'd combust; she was so full, so overwhelmed.

Something had to die – the possibility of Red being her lover or the warm, protective cloak of her guardian angel. There would be a funeral either way.

V.

"Why did you run away, Lizzy? What's bothering you?" He asked the evening after she jolted from his armchair like a mad woman and ran. Little did he know, a possible confession would speed up the small death she'd been trying to avoid for months.

"Please, don't make me answer you today," she implored. An attempt at lying wouldn't result in anything so she decided to forgo it. "I will tell you," she assured because she knew, she knew all too well that hiding her turmoil from him wouldn't do; he wouldn't have it.

She needed an evening, she decided. She'd tell him the next day. She'd be brave for him and for herself. With a little luck, there might not even be a funeral.

"Tomorrow," she promised.

"Tomorrow, Lizzy."


	2. Scenario 1

Oh, the king

Gone mad within his suffering

Called out for relief

Someone cure him of his grief

\- Queen of Peace, Florence + the Machine

* * *

Author's Note: Because reactions can vary...

I.

He'd asked to meet her at her home or his. He sounded urgent when he called to arrange the logistics. She didn't blame his impatience. He was worried after all. She'd scared him with her sudden outburst, with the way she galloped in her desperation to hide from him. He didn't know how precious it was, the time they had left. He was unaware of the imminent blow that would be her admission. Once she admitted that she'd managed to fall in love with him, their odd relationship, such as it was, would change. It could end.

For once, he didn't know. And it was a blessing, she often thought. He was _so_ lucky. Or maybe, he was not. Maybe, he was harboring similar feelings, as unlikely as such a prospect seemed to her. Perhaps he was just as unlucky.

II.

He felt it somehow, that he would not be allowed a second chance at fatherhood. Maybe it was the overwhelming amount of guilt his mind had accommodated over the years. Or maybe it was simply a devastatingly accurate hunch. He was proven correct either way. He had been retaining hope for as long as he could, of course. He'd envision himself as Lizzy's guardian, as the closest thing she'd have to a father. He'd daydream of silly things like walking her down the aisle. The closest thing to a granddaughter he'd ever have. Over the past months, Reddington had come to realize that Nietzsche had it quite right; all his suffering was merely the "how" on his quest to earn the "why" he'd been living for in the past four years. His love for Elizabeth was so grand, so otherworldly; it was the only meaning he'd ever need, he was sure of it. It was what made his life livable.

With a single sentence, she took away his "why".

III.

"I think I'm in love with you," she told him. They sat together for half an hour, making small talk. They were in his apartment, in the Narnia that would disappear for her once their conversation was through. Her fingers were touching the fabrics of his sofa and decorative pillows and she allowed herself a few greedy lungfuls of the air at his place. She bid the surroundings a final farewell, enveloping everything with her gaze. Just in case. She relished in the strange normality of their final moments before the blow that would follow. Only, experiencing something for the last time was no joy, it was agony. She'd never experience this again. There would not be them, not in the safe way they existed in their relationship now. She was going to close the door to their tiny, little realm. And she'd never be able to return.

And in a perverse way, she greedily, twistedly, wanted a lover and a guardian all at once.

She lost both.

IV.

"Was it something I did? Has my behavior triggered this?" he asked and she could tell he was unhappy. And unlucky in a way he had failed to foresee.

"Yes. But it was not that you were giving me wrong signals. I fell for all I received from you."

"I love you, Lizzy," he told her and his eyes were full to the brim. Neither of them were going to cry tears of joy that day.

"I know." She confirmed. Because she did know. It was why she was so completely devastated.

V.

They held each other and cried for hours, resting comfortably with her head on his chest – it was a position that seemed fitting for their different loves.

"How long can we go on like this? It can't last," she supplied, her head heavy from crying, on his chest still.

"No, it can't," he agreed but held her tighter nevertheless.

VI.

He'd leave her when he was sure his work was completed. He'd let her be. He'd lose a daughter and she'd lose the prospect of a very unsuitable lover. His poor girl that had somehow fallen in love with him. He couldn't help her. His immeasurable love for her wouldn't do. And her love for him made him shut his eyes with unease. They couldn't co-exist, loving each other the ways they did.

VII.

He asked her to call him when she got home and she nodded, resuming her quiet crying. She was not going to see it but he'd resume his the second he closed his door. He'd cry, maybe he'd weep for his lost daughter and for his lost "why".


	3. Scenario 2

"There's a drumming noise inside my head  
That starts when you're around  
I swear that you could hear it

It makes such an almighty sound"

\- Drumming Song, Florence + the Machine

* * *

Author's Note: What did I tell you about reactions varying...

Many thanks to Catherine Medici who edited this story.

I.

They had an agreement and she was not going to break that deal. She had promised him answers today and he had accepted her terms. She could lose him, all of him, because of her silly bravery. She started questioning her epiphany the morning before their meeting – could she really not wait a little while longer? Why was ending her suffering more important than their blissful relationship? Was she truly in love with him? Was there a way to postpone what could possibly be the end of their uncertain little heaven? In the wake of her fears, her hunger for him did not seem all that urgent. But she knew better. And a deal was a deal.

She registered her efforts at looking particularly presentable that day and deemed them silly. He had loved her through sweat, grime as well as blood. Not even a garden of peonies could save what was bound to die. But he did like _that fragrance_. He'd inhale a little more generously whenever she wore it and she liked each of the possible explanations she'd come up with later, upon dissecting their encounters and nestling them securely in her memory. She pondered over the instances in which he'd made it clear he was beguiled with the scent - it was as if he was inhaling the sweet scent of an innocent child, that special, fleeting scent that would wear off as the child grew. Or, maybe he was a man who liked the scent of a woman, plain and simple. For a while, both possibilities made her happy.

She wore the perfume.

II.

Selfishly, he wanted to push and probe until he found what it was that made her bolt from her seat that afternoon and run for what seemed like her life. He didn't feel like employing his patience, not one bit. He was hoping she'd tell him over the phone. Or, that she would leave him with room to negotiate; maybe visit her at her home and ask her questions until she caved. She asked him for time and he gave it to her, like he'd give her almost everything else she'd ever ask of him.

Upon further analysis, he was relieved to discover she didn't sound angry during their short conversation on the phone. It soothed him so. Knowing she was not going to attempt ending their relationship again over one of his many misdeeds.

His calm was short-lived, like it always was. Because she sounded unhappy. And truly sad. He couldn't have that. Not that he had the power to make her anguish go away – Heaven knew he'd inflicted most of it. He'd get punished for it all, he was sure of it. Maybe she'd punish him today, just like he deserved. And he'd let her because he loved her. He loved her too much and in ways he was yet to define. He was in no hurry - it was enough, what she was giving him. He was overjoyed whenever she suggested a meal or a movie; all things platonic. It was enough. It was plenty. And he was happy to be whatever she needed him to be. He did think of her as the little girl he'd saved over twenty-five years ago, of course he did. How does one forget an angel? But because he was no angel, he thought of her as the grown woman she'd become. She was too much of a good thing; how was he to ever choose?

She chose for him.

III.

"I'm in love with you," she told him. She watched as shock overtook his entire face. It was done. The exquisite balcony they were leaning against was the best extension to the apartment he'd be occupying for the next two days. It overlooked the best parts of the lively neighborhood she'd loved for years, and the setting was somehow so serene, it filled her senses with an unjustified sense of hope. It was that sweet part of the afternoon, right around four o'clock when everything was calm and quiet. Not even a horn to swallow up the sound of what she'd just told him.

She hadn't opted for "I love you" either or any other admission that would, at the very least, leave some room for interpretation. She left herself not a single exit, no chance for an escape. It wouldn't have worked anyway – that was the catch with clever men.

She thought about moving, about straightening her back and getting away from the heady scent of him. But she didn't want to rush him into reacting. What she needed was the truth, a true liberation from the heaviness she'd gotten off of her chest. So, she stayed.

IV.

He said nothing for the longest time. It terrified her when he kissed her temple again. It almost convinced her that, to him, she'd always be someone too pure to taint. But he kissed her eyelid next, as well as her cheek and the side of her mouth. He nuzzled, he lingered.

"I need to figure out what to do with my love for you, Lizzy. Will you allow me that?" he asked her, his infuriatingly straight nose perfectly aligned with her cheek.

She nodded.

Death was avoided that day.

The End.


End file.
